Post by paulh1 on May 29, 2019 10:52:57 GMT
Hi everyone, below is short piece of fan fiction I wrote few weeks ago. I have took the plunge and posted it here. Please feel free to leave any feedback if you so choose. Couple of disclaimers; it is a horror story and is not suitable for everyone. Please do not read this if you are easily upset. Anyhow, thank you to anyone who takes the time to read it, enjoy.
Nature/Nurture
By P.A Hobson
In the story the Dragon always won. It was a cold place and there were mountains and oft times the streams would not flow because they were all frozen over. And as she told the tale, she made sure to use, embrace as best she could, the surroundings, the visitations in snowy caves and the way the Knight could skim across that tundra, almost like walking on water.
It didn't matter too much that the child couldn't understand, that he pawed at soft toys and billows of cotton, she would read that story, cutting bits in, drama from her cot-side stool.
And the Knight broke the defences of the Dragon's Guard, and by the Emperor, had you been there, in that room as she read it out, you'd swear you'd smell the tungsten, the breath of fire, you'd hold your nose at the stink of burning bones.
Because the Dragon always won in the end.
The child would grow hungry of course, little belly in need of the mother's breast. And as she would sit and feed, edge-lights flickering a kind of offset gold, she would gaze in rapture at the small thing in her arms. She found she needed little sleep now, there was a new heft too her, a little weight gained, new-born satisfaction perhaps, but with it no sense of the tiredness that one would expect would typically follow. Inside she felt new, lean, sinewy and alive. There was an energy in her blood that had been absent for years.
It was as if the birth of this little one, it was as if it had lifted her from the crush of all previous living, the moment it had pushed free of her womb, the clogging dirt, the lower oxygen, the hammers of authority that so blighted those of Auster IV, it was gone, and in its place, a light, a joy, a live-in peace so prevailing. Just her and the child. And stories of course. Stories of dragons burning Knights.
The bond then, the suckling, tight blue lips, her nipples raw, stretched long from over feeding. Odd times a tooth would catch her flesh mid-feed, mixing blood with the colostrum, a sheen of wet pink on her breast. But she did not feel this pain, save the quickest wince, the smallest, briefest discomfort, and the child seemed to feed more hungrily anyhow, the plasma, claret, mixed in with its meal.
Karlston often would come home late on, sun, or the sun that Auster got, long since died off. He would clang and bang about and doors would open and shut. Once within the bowels of their home he would invariably find her by the cot, watching the small rise and fall of a baby's chest.
And the same complaints every night; "Again, what is it you stupid *crow caw*? What is it about that child, that you would gawp at it so longingly, while our house smells of (please do not swear), whilst droppings litter the floor, having no food in for you or I? Should we starve whilst you read that brat stories? Would you have me nuzzle at your breast myself for a readied meal? God-Emperor woman, it may yet come to that!"
"Look, Karlston, look, he's opened eyes, bless him, I thought you had woken him, but he's fallen under again." she would turn to her husband then. "Karlston, you really must keep your volume down!" She would smile at him, but the ignorant, addled fool would merely curse again, and walk back into another room.
She paid little heed to the man's squawking, his bleating on, and rages. How could a father have so little love for their own child? She was certain Karlston was hooked on the metha-fumes, the residual chemicals that were leeched form the field generators at work. Bottled, contained, it gave that instant, dirty little high and since the birth of Youngest Beautiful, since the passing Karlston J, he had come home more times than not, black and bleary eyed, stinking of solvent and walking unsteady lines about the house.
She strokes the child's head whilst it sleeps, soft fontanelle, small, hard bone above small soft eyes. She thought of KJ for minute, their first born (got his father's features, real spitting like, no mistakin'). She thought of the ugly, greedy little turd. And as she thought, that smile, that seemed so constant on her lips nowadays, it died for an instant, replaced by a grimace.
"Grubby little boy, he was a thief, he would take my milk from you My Sweetness. Fat child, too fat, glutton, would have seen you starve, dirty greedy little (please do not swear) that he was!" That rush of rage, incredulous that she could have birthed such a torrid little monster.
But since she had slipped the cable wrapping down Karlston J's throat, let him suck on it with calm abandon, until she had forced it lower, full weight on her arms, seeing panic in that dumb little face, vomit out the nostrils, skin turning dark as his small body was robbed of oxygen. Since then, she had felt a calmness in her, maternal duties fulfilled.
And Karlston Sen., strolling in, all those weeks ago, seeing that fat whelp, plastic bloom rising out between air-starved lips.
"Oh my boy!" pulling the wrapping out of his dead son's mouth. Ream after ream. But too late of course. So he'd tried to bury the thing in the lands by the Guard camps. But dogs had dug up the body, so she had heard, damn near tore it in half.
Uncle Obby came around a month prior. Just appearing all spectral like, at the door while Karlston was out working at the generator. Handsome man was Obby, military he said, never quite knew how he found her, but glad he did. She had quite the crush if truth be known. Youngest Beautiful seemed to take to him too.
"Way it is my darling, see that child, wonderful name by the way, that child is so very special. You did right to to whittle the numbers down, two mouths to feed, far too much of a bind I reckons. One child, as special as a child like yours is as well, something that good, it's got to take all your love hasn't it?"
"Yes, yes." she had nodded away and made drinks and noticed (but tried not to make it so obvious) things, little things, about her guest. How that thick glisten, that warm sheen like water that ran off his face, skin green as the deepest sea, able to loose herself in it. If she could.
"Ever fired a gun Missy, ever let off a round?"
"No, never Sir, never in my born days. Not much chance for weapons round here you see. The only ones with guns here are trouble makers, or the Guard. And, well, I'm neither."
Obby had sank, at that moment, into the rusted frame of what was once an upholstered seat. His eyes were so perfectly afire, that it seemed to her in that instant, as their gazes met, that she well may burst into flames. She felt heat and passion in her then, unlike the drudgery of copulation by-numbers, like it had been with Karlston. This man, this wonderful, odd, man...
"Of course you aren't my dearest love. You and your child, save the baggage of your drug-addicted husband, that awful wretched slug of an offspring you have quite rightly left to the whims of the dogs and maggots, they are your only encumbrance. Soon I will ask of you one more li'l thing."
"To kill Karlston?" She would have travelled to that damn generator sight there and then, slit her husband's throat where he stood.
Obby lifted those long curved fingers, wrapped them in circular motions, seemed to smile under that mask of meat that hung from him; "Yes, but...no. Not yet is what I mean, my God, love, you are quick aren't you? Rapt brain to go with the comeliness of that form of yours. Yes, I would want you to kill your husband, but not yet. Such sudden disaster, would it to occur now, would cause all and sundry to come crashing down about your heads. Let him stew in his industry for a few weeks more. There is plenty of time yet."
An that was how, days later, she had found herself in some small bone-yard place, Obby there, others with white faces and cold ravishing stares. She had fired guns and started to learn how to stab and rend. No more plastic in the throats then. Be the Beast, they said to her. The Beast you always knew you could be.
She laughs to think of it now, how, in her eagerness her first time trying, splitting stitches in her crotch, fresh from the birthing, how she had fired the gun, stabbing the blade into sand bags, all the while feeling the blood running down her legs....
The door rasps open. It is a dark night, Karlston particularly late today then, smell of smoke, outside and tobacco, trudge of boots. Uncle Obby had told her straight, still warmly though, 'you got to stick him tonight Missy, make it good too. Do us proud'. And then she would be away with Youngest Beautiful, talk of some camp, a million miles off, trained and ready, something was coming she had been told. Visitations. Promises of Paradise...
Just tonight then, just got to get through this first...no denying she'd find some pleasure in it all though.
The door opening, slow, creeping light breaking into the room....
The first man through the door, eyes meet hers, his a grim face, under a PDF brow, heavy weapon in his hand. She screams, lunges, knife a flicker in her raised fist.
Flash of something, pain like chunks taken from her guts, falling, looking down, blood that refuses to run, burnt black to her skirt. And as she falls and screams, another, same dirty shades and heavy vest and headwear, stomping in with cylinders on his back. Sets the primer, sets the nozzle. Aiming into the room with the cot.
She can't scream, her throat is full of blood. She sees the ignition trail, the room enveloped with white. Hears Youngest Beautiful screaming, screaming.
And, as shadows bump together, as visions collide and the picture draws up in shrouds, until all is a pinprick of black, she hears, the last thing she hears, the man, the first man, barking things into a radio.
And the static answering back.
Nature/Nurture
By P.A Hobson
In the story the Dragon always won. It was a cold place and there were mountains and oft times the streams would not flow because they were all frozen over. And as she told the tale, she made sure to use, embrace as best she could, the surroundings, the visitations in snowy caves and the way the Knight could skim across that tundra, almost like walking on water.
It didn't matter too much that the child couldn't understand, that he pawed at soft toys and billows of cotton, she would read that story, cutting bits in, drama from her cot-side stool.
And the Knight broke the defences of the Dragon's Guard, and by the Emperor, had you been there, in that room as she read it out, you'd swear you'd smell the tungsten, the breath of fire, you'd hold your nose at the stink of burning bones.
Because the Dragon always won in the end.
The child would grow hungry of course, little belly in need of the mother's breast. And as she would sit and feed, edge-lights flickering a kind of offset gold, she would gaze in rapture at the small thing in her arms. She found she needed little sleep now, there was a new heft too her, a little weight gained, new-born satisfaction perhaps, but with it no sense of the tiredness that one would expect would typically follow. Inside she felt new, lean, sinewy and alive. There was an energy in her blood that had been absent for years.
It was as if the birth of this little one, it was as if it had lifted her from the crush of all previous living, the moment it had pushed free of her womb, the clogging dirt, the lower oxygen, the hammers of authority that so blighted those of Auster IV, it was gone, and in its place, a light, a joy, a live-in peace so prevailing. Just her and the child. And stories of course. Stories of dragons burning Knights.
The bond then, the suckling, tight blue lips, her nipples raw, stretched long from over feeding. Odd times a tooth would catch her flesh mid-feed, mixing blood with the colostrum, a sheen of wet pink on her breast. But she did not feel this pain, save the quickest wince, the smallest, briefest discomfort, and the child seemed to feed more hungrily anyhow, the plasma, claret, mixed in with its meal.
Karlston often would come home late on, sun, or the sun that Auster got, long since died off. He would clang and bang about and doors would open and shut. Once within the bowels of their home he would invariably find her by the cot, watching the small rise and fall of a baby's chest.
And the same complaints every night; "Again, what is it you stupid *crow caw*? What is it about that child, that you would gawp at it so longingly, while our house smells of (please do not swear), whilst droppings litter the floor, having no food in for you or I? Should we starve whilst you read that brat stories? Would you have me nuzzle at your breast myself for a readied meal? God-Emperor woman, it may yet come to that!"
"Look, Karlston, look, he's opened eyes, bless him, I thought you had woken him, but he's fallen under again." she would turn to her husband then. "Karlston, you really must keep your volume down!" She would smile at him, but the ignorant, addled fool would merely curse again, and walk back into another room.
She paid little heed to the man's squawking, his bleating on, and rages. How could a father have so little love for their own child? She was certain Karlston was hooked on the metha-fumes, the residual chemicals that were leeched form the field generators at work. Bottled, contained, it gave that instant, dirty little high and since the birth of Youngest Beautiful, since the passing Karlston J, he had come home more times than not, black and bleary eyed, stinking of solvent and walking unsteady lines about the house.
She strokes the child's head whilst it sleeps, soft fontanelle, small, hard bone above small soft eyes. She thought of KJ for minute, their first born (got his father's features, real spitting like, no mistakin'). She thought of the ugly, greedy little turd. And as she thought, that smile, that seemed so constant on her lips nowadays, it died for an instant, replaced by a grimace.
"Grubby little boy, he was a thief, he would take my milk from you My Sweetness. Fat child, too fat, glutton, would have seen you starve, dirty greedy little (please do not swear) that he was!" That rush of rage, incredulous that she could have birthed such a torrid little monster.
But since she had slipped the cable wrapping down Karlston J's throat, let him suck on it with calm abandon, until she had forced it lower, full weight on her arms, seeing panic in that dumb little face, vomit out the nostrils, skin turning dark as his small body was robbed of oxygen. Since then, she had felt a calmness in her, maternal duties fulfilled.
And Karlston Sen., strolling in, all those weeks ago, seeing that fat whelp, plastic bloom rising out between air-starved lips.
"Oh my boy!" pulling the wrapping out of his dead son's mouth. Ream after ream. But too late of course. So he'd tried to bury the thing in the lands by the Guard camps. But dogs had dug up the body, so she had heard, damn near tore it in half.
Uncle Obby came around a month prior. Just appearing all spectral like, at the door while Karlston was out working at the generator. Handsome man was Obby, military he said, never quite knew how he found her, but glad he did. She had quite the crush if truth be known. Youngest Beautiful seemed to take to him too.
"Way it is my darling, see that child, wonderful name by the way, that child is so very special. You did right to to whittle the numbers down, two mouths to feed, far too much of a bind I reckons. One child, as special as a child like yours is as well, something that good, it's got to take all your love hasn't it?"
"Yes, yes." she had nodded away and made drinks and noticed (but tried not to make it so obvious) things, little things, about her guest. How that thick glisten, that warm sheen like water that ran off his face, skin green as the deepest sea, able to loose herself in it. If she could.
"Ever fired a gun Missy, ever let off a round?"
"No, never Sir, never in my born days. Not much chance for weapons round here you see. The only ones with guns here are trouble makers, or the Guard. And, well, I'm neither."
Obby had sank, at that moment, into the rusted frame of what was once an upholstered seat. His eyes were so perfectly afire, that it seemed to her in that instant, as their gazes met, that she well may burst into flames. She felt heat and passion in her then, unlike the drudgery of copulation by-numbers, like it had been with Karlston. This man, this wonderful, odd, man...
"Of course you aren't my dearest love. You and your child, save the baggage of your drug-addicted husband, that awful wretched slug of an offspring you have quite rightly left to the whims of the dogs and maggots, they are your only encumbrance. Soon I will ask of you one more li'l thing."
"To kill Karlston?" She would have travelled to that damn generator sight there and then, slit her husband's throat where he stood.
Obby lifted those long curved fingers, wrapped them in circular motions, seemed to smile under that mask of meat that hung from him; "Yes, but...no. Not yet is what I mean, my God, love, you are quick aren't you? Rapt brain to go with the comeliness of that form of yours. Yes, I would want you to kill your husband, but not yet. Such sudden disaster, would it to occur now, would cause all and sundry to come crashing down about your heads. Let him stew in his industry for a few weeks more. There is plenty of time yet."
An that was how, days later, she had found herself in some small bone-yard place, Obby there, others with white faces and cold ravishing stares. She had fired guns and started to learn how to stab and rend. No more plastic in the throats then. Be the Beast, they said to her. The Beast you always knew you could be.
She laughs to think of it now, how, in her eagerness her first time trying, splitting stitches in her crotch, fresh from the birthing, how she had fired the gun, stabbing the blade into sand bags, all the while feeling the blood running down her legs....
The door rasps open. It is a dark night, Karlston particularly late today then, smell of smoke, outside and tobacco, trudge of boots. Uncle Obby had told her straight, still warmly though, 'you got to stick him tonight Missy, make it good too. Do us proud'. And then she would be away with Youngest Beautiful, talk of some camp, a million miles off, trained and ready, something was coming she had been told. Visitations. Promises of Paradise...
Just tonight then, just got to get through this first...no denying she'd find some pleasure in it all though.
The door opening, slow, creeping light breaking into the room....
The first man through the door, eyes meet hers, his a grim face, under a PDF brow, heavy weapon in his hand. She screams, lunges, knife a flicker in her raised fist.
Flash of something, pain like chunks taken from her guts, falling, looking down, blood that refuses to run, burnt black to her skirt. And as she falls and screams, another, same dirty shades and heavy vest and headwear, stomping in with cylinders on his back. Sets the primer, sets the nozzle. Aiming into the room with the cot.
She can't scream, her throat is full of blood. She sees the ignition trail, the room enveloped with white. Hears Youngest Beautiful screaming, screaming.
And, as shadows bump together, as visions collide and the picture draws up in shrouds, until all is a pinprick of black, she hears, the last thing she hears, the man, the first man, barking things into a radio.
And the static answering back.
But I do have plans for creating a scenic diorama for my Tyranid Swarm, on the other hand. I used to write horror stories as well, and some fantasy stuff too. I often create my own RPG scenarios to Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay and other systems, so that drains my whole creativity right now. 
